Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

DISCOVERED AFTER 50 YEARS!

MURDER VICTIM’S BODY FOUND

TRIUMPH OF DETECTION

BY LOCKWOOD AGENCY

In one of the most incredible examples of ‘cold case’ detections of recent years, the body of Annabel ‘Annie’ Ward, who vanished almost half a century ago, has been discovered in a house in south-west London. Operatives working for the Lockwood & Co. agency battled half the night with the terrifying spirit of the victim, before locating and making safe the remains.

‘We barely escaped with our lives,’ says young agency head, Anthony Lockwood. ‘But destroying the ghost wasn’t enough for us. We wanted justice for the unknown girl.’

The team subsequently employed sophisticated research techniques to establish the identity of Miss Ward. DEPRAC has since agreed to open a murder investigation.

‘There’s no case too old or too difficult for us,’ says Mr Lockwood. ‘In fact, the tricky ones suit us best, because of our high professionalism and distinctly personal approach. We want to dispose of Visitors, of course, but we’re also interested in the human stories behind the hauntings. Poor Annie Ward died long ago, but her killer can still be brought to account. Lucy Carlisle, one of our top agents, communicated psychically with the Visitor during the operation and, despite a raging inferno started by the vengeful spirit, gained vital evidence that we think will lead us to the culprit’s door. That’s all I can say for now, but we expect to have more news soon, when we’ll reveal the full sensational truth behind this tragedy.’

‘What a great article,’ Lockwood said, for the twentieth time that day. ‘Couldn’t have been better.’

‘They spelled my name wrong,’ I pointed out.

‘They didn’t mention me at all,’ George said.

‘Well, in all the essentials, I mean.’ Lockwood grinned round at us. ‘Page six of The Times. Best bit of publicity we’ve ever had. This is the turning point. Things are finally looking up.’ He shivered and moved his boots from one foul-smelling portion of compost to another.

It was almost eight p.m., the day after our trip to the Archives. We were standing in a mucky gooseberry patch in a dark and chilly garden, waiting for a ghost. It wasn’t the most glamorous assignment known to man.

‘Temperature?’ Lockwood asked.

‘Still dropping.’ George was checking his thermometer. It glowed faintly amid the tangles of the gooseberries. Up in the house, the lights were masked by drab curtains. A dog barked a good way off. Twenty feet away from us, the thin black branches of a willow tree hung like frozen shafts of rain.

‘Miasma’s intensifying,’ I said. My limbs were heavy, my brain tugged by alien emotions of futility and despair. The taste of decay was bitter in my mouth. I took another mint to freshen things up.

‘Good,’ Lockwood said. ‘Shouldn’t be too long.’

‘Telling DEPRAC about Annie Ward,’ George said suddenly, ‘is all well and good. But I still don’t think you should have got the press involved so early. The police investigation’s hardly started, has it? We don’t know where it’s going.’

‘Oh yes we do. Barnes wasn’t very pleased that we’d beaten them to the girl’s identity, but he was very interested in the connection to this Hugo Blake. He looked him up in their records. Turns out he’s something of a successful businessman, but has been in prison several times for fraud, and once for serious assault. He’s a nasty piece of work. And we were right: he’s still alive and well, and living here in London.’

‘So they’re bringing him in?’ I said.

‘They were going to do it today. Probably arrested him already.’

‘Ghost-fog coming,’ George said. Faint tendrils had risen from the earth, coldly luminous, thin as spaghetti, winding between the willow and the wall.

‘What do you hear, Lucy?’ Lockwood asked.

‘Still the same. Wind in the leaves. And a rasping squeak, squeak, squeak.’

‘Rope, you think?’

‘Might be.’

‘George – see anything?’

‘Not yet. What about you? Death-glow still off-ground?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t have moved, would it? Yeah, still up there among the branches.’

‘Can I have a mint, Lucy?’ George said. ‘Forgot mine.’

‘Sure.’

I handed the packet round. Conversation lapsed. We watched the willow tree.

Despite Lockwood’s high hopes for his article, we had not yet felt any benefits from its publicity, and this evening’s vigil represented the last case remaining on our books. Our clients, a young married couple, had regularly experienced feelings of unease and terror near the bottom of their urban garden. On recent nights their children (aged four and six) had reported looking from the house and seeing ‘a dark, still shadow’ standing amongst the trailing branches of the tree. The parents, who were with the children on each occasion, had seen nothing.

Lockwood and I had carried out an initial survey of the area that morning. The willow was very old, with high, thick branches. We’d both noticed faint background phenomena in the vicinity, mainly miasma and creeping fear. Meanwhile George, who had been at the Archives all day, had investigated the history of the house. He had discovered one significant incident. In May 1926 the owner, a Mr Henry Kitchener, had hung himself somewhere on the premises. The exact location was not specified.

We had reason to suspect the tree.

‘I still don’t know why you mentioned me but not the necklace,’ I said. ‘You make it sound like Annie Ward told me personally who killed her, which we all know is rubbish. Ghosts don’t communicate clearly enough. Psychic connection is a fragmentary thing.’

Lockwood chuckled. ‘I know, but it doesn’t hurt to emphasize what a star you are. We want other clients to come running, eager for your services. And I deliberately didn’t mention the necklace, partly because I’m holding that back for future articles, and partly because I haven’t told Barnes about it either.’

‘You didn’t tell Barnes?’ George said incredulously. ‘Even about the inscription?’

‘Not yet. He’s still livid with us, and since taking dangerous artefacts as Lucy did is kind of an offence, I thought it was safer to keep quiet about it now. Besides, why bother? The necklace doesn’t really add anything. Even without it, Blake’s clearly guilty. That reminds me – did you find anything else about the Ward case, George?’

‘Yeah. Some pictures. They’re interesting. I’ll show you when we get back.’

Time passed. The chill increased. The desolate emotions of the restless suicide seeped out from the willow, spreading between the shrubs and flowerbeds, the plastic bikes and children’s toys scattered about the garden. The willow twigs began to rustle gently, though there wasn’t any wind.

‘Wonder why he did it,’ Lockwood murmured.

‘Who?’ George said. ‘Hugo Blake?’

‘No, I was thinking about this case. Why the man hanged himself.’

I stirred. ‘He lost someone dear to him.’

‘Really? Why do you say that, Luce? Wasn’t in the report, was it, George?’

My mind had been empty; I’d been listening to the squeaking in the tree. ‘I don’t know. I’m probably wrong.’

‘Hold it.’ Lockwood’s voice was sharp. ‘I’ve got a shape . . . Yes! You both see that?’

‘No. Where?’

‘He’s right there! Can’t you see him? He’s standing under the tree, looking up.’

I’d felt the thing’s arrival – the invisible disturbance wave, rippling outwards, had made the blood pulse in my ears. But my Sight’s not as good as Lockwood’s, and the tree was still a web of shadows.

‘He’s got the rope in his hand,’ Lockwood muttered. ‘He must have stood there such a time, willing himself to do it . . .’

Sometimes the trick, like with stars, is to look slightly away. When I moved my eyes towards the garden wall, shadows under the tree contracted into sudden focus: I saw a pale outline, slim and motionless, the willow branches superimposed on it like bars.

‘I see it.’ Yes, he was looking up, head tilted, as if his neck were already broken.

‘Don’t look at his face,’ George said.

‘OK, I’m going in close,’ Lockwood said. ‘Let’s all keep calm. Aaah! Something’s got me!’

Twin squeals of iron: George and I had drawn our rapiers. I flicked my torch-beam onto Lockwood, who was frozen beside me, staring.

I flicked it off again.

‘Nothing’s got you,’ I said. ‘Your coat-tail’s caught on a gooseberry bush.’

‘Oh, fine. Thanks.’

A snort from George. ‘That coat! It’s too long! It almost killed you the other night as well.’

Small sounds followed as Lockwood prised his coat clear of the gooseberries. Below the willow tree, the shape had still not moved.

‘Keep me covered,’ Lockwood said.

He drew his rapier and stole past, moving towards the tree. Ghost-fog clung about his calves and churned in milky eddies as he took each cautious stride. George and I kept pace behind him, salt bombs ready in our hands.

We drew near the willow’s outer fronds.

‘OK . . .’ Lockwood breathed. ‘I’m close, but it’s not reacted. It’s just a Shade.’

I could see it better now: the rudimentary outlines of a man in shirt-sleeves, high-waisted trousers, braces . . . A pale face tilted upwards. I kept my eyes averted from that face, but I felt the echoes of an ancient grief, a loved one lost, despair beyond enduring . . . I sensed a man’s deep-throated groan.

All at once the shape moved; I saw a flash of rope, a coil flung high into the branches—

At which a small, pale missile shot past and burst upon the tree. A shower of salt cascaded out, cut through the shape. It writhed and vanished. Salt grains ignited with green fire. They pattered down like emerald snow.

I turned to George. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Keep your hair on. It moved. Lockwood was right there. I’m not taking chances.’

‘He wasn’t attacking,’ I said. ‘He was too busy thinking about his wife.’

‘His wife? How do you know that? Did you hear him speak?’ George said.

‘No . . .’

‘So how—’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Lockwood pushed the willow twigs aside. Around his boots, green sparks winked and faded into nothing. ‘He’s gone. Let’s lace the ground with iron, and get back in the warm.’

Some cases are like that – quick and easy, over in a trice. For what it’s worth, the following day an ancient ring of rope, deeply embedded in a high branch, was discovered directly above the place where the apparition had been. The rope was fused to the wood and could not be removed, so the whole branch was sawn off and burned in a salt fire. Three days later, the owners had the tree cut down.

Arriving back at Portland Row after our vigil in the garden, we were surprised to find a police car parked outside our house, with the lights on and the engine running. A DEPRAC officer got out as we approached: a big fellow, shaven-headed, all muscle and no neck. He wore the usual night-blue uniform.

He regarded us unsmilingly. ‘Lockwood and Co.? At bloody last. You’re to come to Scotland Yard.’

Lockwood frowned. ‘Now? It’s late. We’ve just been on a case.’

‘That’s nothing to me. Barnes wants you. He wanted you two hours ago.’

‘Could it wait until tomorrow?’

The policeman’s hand, pink and massive as a ham joint, alighted slowly on the iron truncheon at his belt. ‘No.’

Lockwood’s eyes flashed. ‘Eloquently put,’ he said. ‘All right, Sergeant. Let’s go.’

Scotland Yard, the headquarters of London’s conventional police force, and also of the DEPRAC units that served the city in the grim night hours, was a wedge-shaped block of steel and glass halfway up Victoria Street in the middle of the city. Close by stood the Gravediggers’ Guild and the Union of Undertakers; also the Fairfax Iron Company, United Salts and, above all, the vast Sunrise Corporation, which manufactured kit for most agencies in the country. On the opposite side of the road stood the offices for most of the major religions. Each one of these powerful organizations was at the heart of the ongoing war against the Problem.

Outside the Yard, lavender fires smouldered in metal tubs, and runnels of fresh water gushed across the pavement. Two red-nosed night-watch kids stood near the doors, keeping guard against supernatural threat. They drew back their sticks and stood to attention as the officer led us past, and up some stairs to DEPRAC’s centre of operations.

As always after dark, the room was a hive of activity. On the back wall a giant street-map of London was dotted with dozens of tiny lights, some green, some yellow, each marking the night’s emergencies. Men and women in sober uniforms bustled back and forth below it, carrying sheaves of paper, talking loudly on telephones, giving orders to team leaders from the Rotwell and Fittes agencies, which often helped DEPRAC in its work. A young agent ran past us, carrying a bundle of rapiers in his arms; beyond, two policemen stood drinking coffee, their body-armour steaming from ectoplasm burns.

The officer showed us into a waiting room and left us. It was quieter here. Above our heads iron mobiles moved in the breeze from hidden fans. Air-conditioning thrummed.

‘What do you think he wants?’ I asked. ‘Something more about the fire?’

Lockwood shrugged. ‘I hope it’s news about Blake. Maybe they’ve got him. Maybe he’s confessed.’

‘Speaking of which . . .’ George foraged in his bag. ‘While we’re waiting, you might take a look at these cuttings from the Archives. I’ve found out more about Annie Ward. Seems that, fifty years ago, she was part of a glitzy set – mostly rich kids, but not all – who hung out in the swankiest bars in London. A year before she died London Society did a photo piece on them. Check it out. She’s not the only name you’ll recognize.’

The pictures, photocopied from the originals, were in black and white. They were mostly of balls and parties, but of casinos and card games too. Young, glamorous people clustered in every shot. Apart from the dress styles (and the lack of colour) they were little different from those in the modern magazines that Lockwood read, and just about as dull – but on the third or fourth sheet I was suddenly brought up short. There were two photos on this page. The first was a studio shot of a sleek young man, smiling at the camera. He wore a black top hat, a black bow tie, a jet-black jacket. There was probably a frilly shirt as well, but that was mercifully hidden behind the cane in his hand. He had white gloves too. His hair was long, dark and luxuriant; his face handsome in a fleshy way. The smile was confident and ingratiating. It said it knew how much you’d like him, if you’d only take the chance.

Underneath, a caption: Mr Hugo Blake: Today’s Man About Town.

‘There he is,’ Lockwood breathed.

I stared at the glossy, self-satisfied face. As I did so, another face – laced with dust and cobwebs – came into my mind.

‘And he’s in this one too,’ George said.

Directly below it, another picture. This was a group photo, taken from some high vantage. Young men and women standing by a fountain. It must have been some tedious summer gala because all the men were in white tie and tails, while the girls wore full ball dresses. There were straps and sequins and ruched shoulders and I don’t know what else. Dresses aren’t my thing. It was a black-and-white shot, but those dresses had beautiful colours, you could just tell. The girls were arranged mostly at the front, with the men crowding in behind. They were all grinning up at the camera like they owned the world, which some of them maybe did. And right in the centre was Annie Ward. She was so radiant it was like the other-light was already on her. The women standing next to her wore resigned smiles, as if they knew they were being put in the shade.

‘Here’s Blake,’ George said, pointing to a tall figure grinning in the row behind. ‘Right at her shoulder. It’s like he’s stalking her even here.’

‘And look . . .’ With a jolt I noticed a tiny oval smudge just visible beneath the girl’s white throat. I felt my own throat tightening. ‘She’s got the necklace on.’

‘Oh, you’ve all come, have you?’ Inspector Barnes stood in the doorway, glaring down at us. He looked weary; even his moustache had a slightly mournful droop. He carried a file of reports in one hand and a polystyrene cup of coffee in the other. ‘What joy. Going to make me spill my drink again?’

Lockwood stood. ‘We’ve come at your request, Mr Barnes,’ he said coolly. ‘How can we be of service to you?’

‘Well, not all of you can. Some are definitely surplus to requirements.’ Barnes looked particularly at George. ‘You got rid of that ghost-jar yet, Cubbins?’

‘Certainly have, Mr Barnes,’ said George.

‘Mm. Well, as it happens I don’t need you tonight – nor you either, Lockwood. It’s Miss Carlyle I want to speak to.’ The hangdog eyes appraised me; I felt the keenness of his stare. ‘Please come with me now, miss. You others wait here.’

A pang of fright speared through my chest; I looked anxiously at Lockwood, who’d stepped forward, frowning. ‘Nothing doing, Inspector,’ he said. ‘She’s my employee. I insist on being present whatever you’re—’

‘If you want to be charged with obstructing an investigation,’ Barnes growled, ‘keep right on talking. I’ve had enough of you this week. Well? Anything more to say?’

Lockwood fell silent. I smiled as best I could at him. ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be OK.’

‘Of course she will.’ Barnes pulled the door open and ushered me past. ‘Don’t fret. We won’t be long.’

He led me out and across the operations room to a smooth steel door on the far side. Here he keyed in a number on a pad; the door slid open, revealing a quiet corridor lit by neon strip-lights.

‘Your friend Lockwood tells me,’ Barnes said, as we set off down the corridor, ‘that you achieved a psychic connection with the ghost of Annie Ward. Is that true?’

‘Yes, sir. I heard her voice.’

‘He also says you gained an important insight about her death – that she was killed by a man she’d once loved.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Well, that was true too – up to a point. I’d had that insight when I touched the necklace. I hadn’t learned it from the ghost-girl herself.

Barnes looked at me sidelong. ‘When she spoke to you, did she give you his name?’

‘No, sir. It was just . . . random fragments. You know what Visitors are like.’

He grunted. ‘They say Marissa Fittes held whole conversations with Type Three ghosts back in the old days, and so learned many things. But that’s a rare power, and those are rare ghosts. The rest of us have to make do with whatever pathetic scraps we can get. OK . . . this is the High Security Zone. We’re almost there.’

We had taken a concrete staircase to a lower level. The doors around us were heavier now, and made of banded iron. Several of them had black-rimmed warning signs fixed against the wall: yellow triangles showing a single grinning skull, red triangles showing two. The air had grown cool; I guessed we were now underground.

‘Now listen,’ Barnes said. ‘Thanks to your discoveries, I’ve reopened the Annabel Ward case.’ He glared at me askance. ‘Don’t think we weren’t close to figuring out her identity too. You may have got there quicker, but that’s because you’re three kids messing about, who have nothing better to do. Be that as it may, I’ve looked into the connection with this Hugo Blake and I think he’s guilty. I arrested him today.’

My heart leaped. ‘Good!’

‘However’ – Barnes had stopped outside a plain iron door – ‘fifty years on, Blake still denies it all. He says he dropped the girl off at the house and never went inside.’

‘He’s lying,’ I said.

‘I’m sure he is, but I’d like more evidence. And that’s where you come in. All right, in you go, please.’

Before I could speak he had ushered me past the door and into a small dark room, empty except for two steel-and-leather chairs and a little table. The chairs faced the opposite wall, which consisted of a single pane of fogged grey glass. There was a switch built into the table, and also a black telephone receiver.

‘Sit down, Miss Carlyle.’ Barnes picked up the receiver and spoke into it. ‘OK? Is he there? That’s fine.’

I stared at him. ‘What are you talking about? Please tell me what’s going on.’

‘Psychic links like you had with the dead girl,’ Barnes said, ‘are very subjective things. Hard to put into words. You remember some things and forget others. Basically, they mess with your mind. So it’s possible that the ghost did communicate more about her killing than you recall. The face of her murderer, for instance.’

I shook my head, suddenly understanding. ‘You mean Blake? No. I just saw a photo of him now. It didn’t mean a thing to me.’

‘It may be different in the flesh,’ Barnes said. ‘We’ll see, shall we?’

Panic filled me. ‘Mr Barnes, I really don’t want to do this. I’ve told you everything.’

‘Just take a look. He won’t be able to see you. It’s one-way glass. He won’t even know you’re there.’

‘No, please, Mr Barnes . . .’

The inspector ignored me. He pressed the switch on the table. In front of us, bright light split the centre of the pane of glass. The brightness widened. Internal shutters drew aside like curtains to reveal a spot-lit room.

A man sat on a metal chair in the centre of that room, facing towards us. If you disregarded the one-way glass, he was about two or three metres away.

He was an elderly gentleman in a smart suit, black with a thin pink pinstripe. His shoes were brightly polished, his tie bright pink; a crush-pink handkerchief erupted from his breast pocket like a flame. Hugo Blake clearly retained the dandyish taste that he’d displayed in that black-and-white photo, fifty years before. The hair was slate-grey, but still long and still luxuriant; it brushed against his shoulders with soft, indulgent curls.

So much, then, was still the same – but not the face.

The smooth, complacent looks of youth had been replaced by a ravaged expanse, gaunt and grey and lined. Bones jutted like ploughshares beneath the skin. The nose had a net of thick blue veins that had begun to spread across the cheeks and chin. The lips were shrunken – tight and thin and hard. And the eyes—

The eyes were the worst. Sunk deep in hollow sockets, they were bright and cold, and full of anger and intelligence. They moved ceaselessly, staring all about, scanning the surface of the blank glass wall. The man’s fury was apparent. His hands dug like claws into his knees. He was speaking, but I couldn’t hear the words.

‘Blake’s rich,’ Barnes chuckled, ‘and used to getting his own way. He’s not at all happy to be here. But that’s not your problem. Take a good look, Miss Carlyle. Let your mind empty; think back to what you got from the girl. Does this trigger anything?’

I took a deep breath, squashed my anxiety down. After all, it was going to be OK. He couldn’t actually see me. I’d do what Barnes wanted, then be gone.

I focused my attention on the face—

And as I did so, the old man’s eyes locked suddenly into mine. They became quite still. It was as if he saw straight through the barrier and knew that I was there.

He smiled at me. It was a smile full of teeth.

I jolted right back in my seat. ‘No!’ I said. ‘That’s enough! I don’t get anything. It’s triggered nothing. Please. Please stop now! That’s enough.’

Barnes hesitated, then pressed the button. The shutters drew together, unhurriedly blocking out the spot-lit, smiling man.